Kiss Me
by Ellered
Summary: Third time's a charm. Dante/Lady. Mature readers please.
1. Chapter 1

Dante/Lady; 3 chapters.

**Rated M (for mature readers please)**

Title: **Kiss Me.  
**

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x

In the corner of the room, there's a light flickering against the shadowed wall, and the curtains shimmer and lazily dance with the wind. There's a fluffy white rug, a table where two glasses of wine are half filled, a tipped wine bottle-empty of its contents, and small drops spilling to the Parisian carpet, staining red contemporary art.

Dante's on the bed, his back against the white sheet- competing next to his white bangs; in his usual laid back manner, his hair partially covers one half lidded view of his desired object: Lady. His blood quickens at her movements, and he feels her naked leg move between his; he catches his breath---swallowing until she's got her lips close to his, hot sweet breath against his, almost kissing.

She doesn't really say anything, just a whisper, too close to the shadow of the wind, because she doesn't really need to say much---just touch him, with those hands-her legs, and her lips kissing along his neck, to the middle of his chest, just slight.

He closes his eyes, not thinking, but shuddering as if the room brought in the chill. He's afraid if he does exactly what he really wants to do, he'll break her-but Dante knows better. She's stronger than expected, yet it still nags at the back of his mind; he wants her more than anything, he could almost taste it.

He touches her softly, sliding his fingers downward, achingly slow-down to her slim curving hips, angling enough so he's about to top her, but she resists; turns herself towards him so that she's holding out her hand, where her palm cups-underneath the growth of a light shadowed stubble.

He breathes deeply, loves the sweet, almost honey-citrus smell of her; furtively touching her skin with his lips, gliding downward-down, so close--between her legs so that she's finally arching her back, curling up like a kitten, purring, and gasping in moans.

She has her eyes half open, looking sultry the way she parts lips, pale pink in the light.  
And he feels her arms go around him, when she turns into him, so now she tries to top him. Her panties-silk and lace, sheens white with tiny pearls, shines-so shiny it winks in the bedroom light, against her near sultry coral pale skin---where imprints of his fingers reveal shades of pink-white-pink.

The sheets are tumbling down the edge of the bed, and he groans as she beats him in this game, where her legs have straddled, dominating---clasping his hips, because now she's brought her form fully up-facing him-her hand flat against the muscular chest, so that he can feel the heartbeat beneath her pulse, hear the thundering of his own against his ears.

He can't take much more of this, and he can feel how he's trembling, dreading the pure fact that she's absolutely enjoying this little perverse game. And his eyes stray over to the spaghetti strap that falls over her shoulder, falling over so far that she's allowed him a view of her breasts-full, beautiful, round and all he can do is stare, shudders inside himself---where he's so hard, it's almost painful. He feels like it's his first time. With her, it is, each and every time.

He moves a little, to bring her close, gently pushes his fingers inside her, to touch where her heat makes her moan, makes her throw her head back---so that she's moving along with him-gyrating her hips against his. He grits his teeth at the pleasure, and the pain is unbearable, to the point, where his mind wants to shut down. Where his instincts switch on, and his eyes fire red like his demon's blood wills; where the heat of her mouth is against hers, and his fingers delve deep, touching her wet hot walls.

Dante breathes harder, wanting to replace where his fingers are, to push against her-there where her scent is strong and makes his mouth water. And she climaxes, where her hips are shuddering against his, and his fingers are moving until he can feel the last tremors of her body.

He waits, and he's losing his patience, but he knows its worth all the time---watches her breathing relax, calm, and she's looking at him with her lips parting, breathing slight.  
He waits.

Lady leans down, quickly taking his lips into hers, sucking, biting, licking, tongue against tongue-hot, wet, and honey. He trembles with anticipated breath, and kisses her back with fervor and he can feel her hands---both holding his face-to holding the back of his head so that they're locking lips; kissing, pushing their bodies so close. His hand gripping at her slip, the straps pulled all the way down until he's got his mouth sucking at her nipple, and back at her beautiful lips.

He feels himself pushing against her, because she's already on top, and pushing against him---moving together frantically, almost desperately. Until he's inside, where once his fingers were, and he's groaning aloud, against her breasts, slaking his tongue against her pink crests, biting, almost greedily. He pushes up hard, his fingers digging, feeling her ass, and it's too much. It's just too much....

They're at this for hours, the clock ticking restlessly in the room-he's pounding, breathing hard against her lips, and wettened dark hair; her dark long bangs wet against her temples. He's on top, he's bringing himself fully inside her, and she's taking him---her legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer-as if she couldn't get any more of him.

In the last hour of the night, where the light is coming into the room, they sleep in each other's arms; the sweet smell of sex and wine permeates the air. And the breeze is cool, with the coming of the sunrise. He slightly wakes, placing his hand along her smooth back, gently caressing. His chest fills with a painful clarity of something fierce. Later, he falls back next to her, breathes her hair, and falls back to sleep.

xx


	2. Chapter 2

Okay this is part I of the last story I wrote, "Kiss me." However it's not necessary that it's part of the last chapter, if it's stand alone. I am just adding this to this chapter, because it all connects, and the _3rd and last chapter_, will be for Titanwolf, because of a certain sexy song request to the story, s/he wanted me to do. So, yeah, one more chapter.  
**Title:** Kiss Me: The Present  
**Characters/Pairing: **Dante, Lady  
**Rating:** PG-13, for some imagery.  
**Word count:** 2198  
**Warnings: **metaphors, disturbing images, present tense.

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x

He's Dante, doesn't really think all that much, likes to drink a little too much...tomato juice, and eat messily; but he doesn't really-it's not like he's got stains on his immaculate black shirt, or the red leather that holds his frame. Even when he disregards mirrors because he doesn't believe he's that vain, or when he thinks that the women want him, he knows better. There's nothing about him that needs understanding, and he tells himself that even when he's filled enough with sex and lust-driven demon killing, it's back to work. Looking bored, and staring at the stacks of magazines that come splattered on his desk.

His dreams are always good: triumphant, filled with demons and the evocative past. Always, they're after him, and she's there, for eternity--standing there with a pair of weapons, long legs embraced by hard leather and rough suede. Her white shirt fastened, losing all the buttons but one. She's wearing a skirt, like the old days-alternating colours, shadowing the section between her thighs.

He can smell the sweet perfume of her: gun-smoke, the clinging effervescence of fireworks; of cherry bomb crackers filling the air, with a hint of hard and heavy aftersex. And that's when he starts gripping his ivory, caressing the other like a worn loving friend, and when he staggers-deliberately, every step confident. Towards her, and she's standing there, with her eyes covered in sunglasses. She doesn't want to show, to remind him of her eyes. All blues and reds, and plenty of hard edgy glint.

In the morning, it's hard to focus; Dante can't help it that he likes to sleep in. His body aches; everywhere; surrounding everything: muscles tighten, bunching up like a ball, and the tension flowing becomes second nature. He stretches, looking up at the ceiling, where above--the fan moves, in a slow motion flow-the sounds echo like the flapping of bird's wing: loud; obnoxious. When he reaches for her, an instinct tells him before that she's already gone. The space there unoccupied and the feeling is empty-the sheets are pulled away, revealing the indention of where her body had lain. He looks back at the ceiling, watches for a few more minutes, breathing-the fan's turns are faster now, and he wonders when he'll stop being mesmerized.

It doesn't take long. Even demons wouldn't dare, they're pusillanimous when truth comes into the morning light-in this bedroom, where his father's blood runs in his veins. He takes the effort, to move against her pillow, looking out at the open window. She doesn't move in her things, like most women would. She's not like that---she's too independent, doesn't take more, but she gives-she gives too much even when she tries not to. The light shines in the room, haloing his eyes, and he squints. Just slightly, and relaxes against the sun. He's used to the burn. Used to the intensity and the heat of the flame. There's different levels of hell, and each one, he's been through-has taught him a lesson.

In the kitchen, the light from the window, transient through the glass--shines bright on her dark head, almost blue. And he notes the way her white shirt is unbuttoned, showing the curve of breast. He watches, while sauntering in, taking the seat opposite. There's an empty simple bowl, a box of cereal, silver spoon shining, left there.

She brings the cup to her lips, sips with noise, deftly; and her eyes, in blues and reds, shades from the sunlight, looks to him. But, she's got those damned sunglasses on. He wants to swipe them off her, but she'll be just as fast, if not faster-and they would be in a battle, and wouldn't mind. He laughs a little, to himself and she catches the grin.

"Got something on your mind?" her voice echoes in the stretched room, and he doesn't wonder why-there's only a fridge, the table, a couple of chairs, the cupboards stuck to the wall and there's not much in there either. Everything's almost white in the first light. She doesn't attempt to help clean much, only if there's something she messes up, and if there's time, she's generous to clean up what he couldn't. His demon power manages to put him in a very positive position, stopping time, and if he were poetic enough---he would watch her like a poet, or a painter does with their art.

But he's not.

He breathes out a small kind of laugh, shaking his head somewhat, his elbows on the table.

"Not really, just, you wearing your sunglasses. I find it funny." He picks up the offered cup of coffee, drinks it whole, and doesn't remember to put in sugar or milk. He mentally notes to do the next one with a topping of extra sugar, and glances over at the carton of milk. Dante gives her another look, one that is quick, a flash of light blue. He misses the way her eyes are looking at him, but he knows, because he can see what she looks like, under the cover of spectacles.

"Huh," she exhales, "I was going to head out a bit. You just caught me finishing up."

He looks at her small plate, empty except for a few bread crumbs. She probably had a couple slices of toast. Maybe. And the jar of strawberry jam is open. She sees where his eyes stray and Lady picks up the cover to twist the jar shut. The smell of coffee still lingers in the air, and there's also a small carton of orange juice standing on the counter, unopened. But everything smells of strawberries, oranges, and black coffee.

"You all right?" he says, and chews thoughtfully over his cereal, puts more milk in, drowning the circles and the animal faces.

"I'm fine, why?" She is already grabbing her jacket, the movement svelte and over the sun's serving conduit. He watches her through lowered lids, and takes another spoonful of cereal.

He shrugs, one shoulder, "About last night."

She stretches a smile, showing white, "Couldn't be better."

And he couldn't stop the flow of his words, because he's Dante, adding a quick, indolent wink, "More of where that's coming from."

"Uhuh. Can't wait." She says it after a pause, when she's in a rush, already out the door. He hears the bolt shut, and he doesn't move from his place as he hears the roaring of her motorcycle. Cherry red-similar to the one he broke years before. She's been paid up from all the demon hunts and the destruction he's caused. But he's part demon, too full of pent up energy--he can't help but destroy things.

When the phone rings, there's been too many demons coming and going. He feels it's Vergil sending them to him. But he doesn't really care. None of these demons were that much of a challenge. Though, there have been times when the world almost died because of his over confidence. He leans against the desk, doesn't bother to write down anything---his memory is flawless, even when those memories are categorized in his mind. Sometimes, they're placed somewhere deep.

When he reaches his location, it's cliché'd full of dark alleys and tall buildings shadowing the distant charcoaled sky. Overhead, the thunder is loud, cracking a whip against the wind. Even when the wind flows through beneath his coattails, the shadows are forming, welcoming him with eager hands---like the embrace of death. He can smell the demons-there's a handful of them.

"No matter what form," he sniffs loudly, "you all reek."

Sounds of his brown cowboy boots hitting the asphalt click like pins, sharp and hard, "Come on," he taunts, "You guys just can't give up, well, let's get a move on, shall we? I've got dinner to catch soon."

The black smoke starts to fill the air around him, and there's the flavour of blood, dark and rich, and replete of anguish. These are lust-filled demons, this time. There's one long willowy figure, looking female, and the promise of a youthful male---just for an added kick; and he smiles, stretching his skin over pearly whites, giving contrast to the night.

They slither, sway like flying banners, and smells of sex, like the hot, bubbling truth of his groin, and he's feeling the prick of hardness, straining against the leather. But not for them. He doesn't get excited over the demons that rake their long claws over his eyes, missing, and missing, and persistence ending their fate. They've reached the climax over the long hill, where the lightning flashes--- yellow, blue, and milking the sky.

It's washed over, like a sacrificial lamb, over the stone, where her body bleeds: a virginal offering. He halts-seeing her there naked over the harsh rock. Her face is pale, the blood gone from her cheeks. She is spread out like an offering, with long legs, muscular from use, thighs covered in sharp wire-the blood seeping out of delicate looking skin, where the spikes have gone in. She's looking like fear and torture with the eyes of blue and red. Bright wet spots shine on her cheeks where the sweat and tears mingle.

Her hair is dark red from the sticky blood, and her mouth is trying to move, and there's a moment---there before his eyes stray to her beautiful breasts---the bendable wire poking into the pink flesh, that he makes the tiny mistake that it's not her.

Bullets from his left shoulder pass him, and singes through the skin of the demon lying on the stone, disintegrating anything that resembled her. And the truth comes out like a smack in the face. They were tempting him and this time, he almost loses himself. But he knew before he takes up the twins, black and white, shiny, reflecting the moon's glow, to shoot into the faces that emerge, showing the deception. One. Two. Three. They're easier to pick out, when their cover is blown.

When he's done, he takes a glance over at her. She stands like in his dream. There on the hill-with the swirling air around her, static forming. The strands of dark hair clinging to the blossoming pink on her cheek, sticky and sweet. But she's far from sweet.

He grins, and characteristically swipes his nose with leather gloves, casually gripping ebony.

"I can't believe you fell for that act," she gives him a half smile, lifting the corner, showing a dimple. Kalina Ann: her long inherited canon over her shoulder, looking like a burden.

"Only for a moment. Plus, you being close by almost got me. Can I blame it on the wind? The smell of you and their demon scent just kind of, freaked me a little." And he sees that she doesn't laugh at him, not for this slight misgiving, just smiles. He spreads his arms out, "hey, you know, first time I saw Vergil when he came back, I was pausing for a moment too. Can't help it. People close to me, past, present, they tend to do that." He brushes off his pant legs as if the dust of the demon still wears him, "Can't help it." Dante repeats again.

"Just remember. I wouldn't be looking scared like that."

"Going home?"

"I'll meet you there," she tells him, already getting on her bike, starting the motor, "want a ride?" The offering is a last ditch, and the temptation is what drives him to swagger, too confident, towards her like the vision he sees in his sleep. The smoke swirls, left over from the demons. It turns in, like a fog drowning deep into the asphalt.

He doesn't need to, but he takes his time to hold her, roughened fingers clasping the slim waist, his hand gliding a little to touch her thigh, where there's skin showing.

She doesn't seem to mind, slightly looking over shoulder, "hold on tight."

He deliberately moves in, his groin against her back, and maybe it's just too small of a space there---on her cherry bike, "I promised you more of last night."

He hears her soft laughter, "Really, Dante, could you be any more romantic?"

"Babe, whatever you want."

She is shaking her head, the sound of her chuckle pleases him, "You know what. I can't believe I'm saying this, but incorrigible as you are, don't ever change."

"What can I say?" he leans into her, breathes in, close to the curve of her neck, "you can't resist me."

"You just wait, Dante. When I get you home." She gives him a quick wicked grin.

It's his turn to laugh. He's really liking the way she's _almost_ sweet on him. He knows that he's in for it. Yeah, he can't wait. It's been a hell of a day.

The sound of the bike rips down the alley, leaving the trail of engine smoke.


	3. Chapter 3

Part III

M, mature readers please. ;-)

Notes: I can't put in the songfics, but it's called, "Glycerine," by Bush, and it's requested by titanwolf. So, just pretend it's there, half way through the story.

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---

When they've reached home, he's already stomping his boots noisily up the stairs. Like some kind of eager little boy about to get his strawberry ice cream dessert. He stops, turns around, at the top of the stairs; because he notices that she doesn't follow. Dante bites a grin, strokes at the day's growth there. He lets out a kind of laugh, hand on the iron-black banister, leaning his body. Hip against the railing, and already his fingers reaches to undo the black buttoned shirt, the sound of the necklace—clinks, against them.

"I'm waiting." He says, his brows high, wiggling. He thinks that if he's going to act sexy for her, it better be good. She lets out a sigh, slowing her pace as she reaches the couch, dumping her weapons with casual ease on the end table.

"I know, but first," she tells him, her fingerless gloved hand-- index up, "you're paid up for the job," she unhooks her belt, pulling out a folded envelope. It's stained in dry blood, and the cash—green shows through the opening.

"Looks good to me," he grins wide, but he's getting a little antsy, "Now, shall we?"

"There's another," she tells him, her grin matches his—and he could tell that she's got mischief in the tone. Lady brings her boot up, slides a piece of thin lace out—slowly, it's almost too diaphanous.

He pulls away his shirt, revealing torso, the muscles there---beneath his ribs, twitching as he moves; the breadth of his shoulders, broader against the low shadows of the interior.

"I like it, already." He grits his teeth a little, too damned horny to care, "but it's going to be ripped off as soon as you put it on."

"It's part of a gift from the job you just did. As payment."

"What?" He makes a scoffing noise, "first the bottle of wine upstairs, and the prissy paris-something rug, now this? I'm beginning to wonder if our little phone call deal is some kind of voyeur too."

Then he shakes his head, laughs, "Well that's fine with me, if they want to take a peek, let them."

"Dante!" she pulls away her sunglasses, throwing them aside, "don't you think it's a little creepy that they're sending you all these 'gifts'?"

"I could give a fuck," he curses softly under his breath, "now damn, Lady, I'm about to burst here. If you have any sense of sanity in you, you'd do this boy a favour and help him on his way."

"Quixotic. All action and no talk are you? Anymore brilliant lines?" Her eyes cast down; she bites her lips, watching him through lower lids as he casually climbs back down the stairs.

"I'll give you brilliant, lady; I'm not a man of words."

"Indeed." She softly exhales, "gun, sword, all body language, I used to despise your cockiness."

"Got used to it huh?"

"Arrogant prick."

"Uh-huh yeah, keep talking, come on, you can do better than that." he hasn't stopped grinning, already pulling away the belt; unclasping the front; it makes a soft sliding noise as it drags out from the belt loops. Dante realizes that she's not going to come to him, and he's descending, reaching the bottom, "now, if you don't come to me, like I think you're not, then I'm on my way, babe."

"Ohh ho," she laughs, walking back, "you know you're going to get punished, right?" Her mouth is open, showing pink tongue pushing against the wall of her cheek.

Dante looks through the curtain of white bangs, sees her walking away, then stops, "Fine, lady, I wasn't expecting anything less, do what you will. I like the abuse."

"One track mind."

"Bitch."

"You've used that one too many times."

He sends her a lazy smirk, "I hate this talking."

Lady does make the move, reaching him quickly---almost gasping as her body is promptly hauled up, and her legs are wrapping around his waist, because now they're locked together---kissing hard. She's angling her head so that the kiss deepens; his hands, large around her waist, holds, pulls her closer; his tongue dips in, diving like a man taking his first drink, and he feels nails, fingers digging deep on his back, shoulders.

As she moves away from him, breathing hard, against his cheek; grazing her skin, her mouth is open and her hands play at the nape of his neck, kissing again his parted mouth. He is looking at her, the blues closes over lids; he sinks into her mouth, stirring wet heat. They lean back as he takes over---dominating, as her back arches.

He allows her to breathe, as she moves away from the kiss-- nose to nose, her mouth parted; they're breathing like that—soft, white burn between, and while she's braced her body against him---legs wrapped tight, she whispers, hoarse, "I want you to take me from behind, Dante."

She's got her fingers along the curve of his neck, lightly touching the whites of his hair, and he's feeling the strain, stiff—against her, against the moist heat. He doesn't even question why, he's too damned restive. Not wanting it here. Not here. And says-- moving along her jaw, lips against cheek, gliding, mouth to her ear--that he won't go gentle, gratifying her, earning a bite on his lip.

"Ow," he growls, "that's real nice. Come on."

"Fucker," she grates back, husky, pleased; and her short nails burrow deeper into the naked flesh.

"You've got that right." He replies, rough.

When they've reached the bedroom, he kicks the door with his boot, slamming it shut. Dante doesn't even try, she's got her feet down, heels hitting the floor, but she doesn't move away. Turning, she pushes her body against him—and he hasn't stopped breathing too hard, when she reaches up, curling back, pulling him down to kiss her. His hands move around to hold her, arm over, under her breasts. Their kisses are wild; sucking; wet inside; bruising.

He pulls at her shirt, the button coming easily off, cupping a breast, moving down her skin, rough and smooth, under the white material. He feels her fingers gently tunnel through his hair, tasting her completely. And when he pushes groin against her back, she makes a moan in his mouth, trembling. She is pulling at her skirt, and he leans down, listens to her groan as he helps her. It falls down, in a pool at her ankles and she doesn't miss a beat when her feet steps out of them, lips against his skin.

"Aww fuck," his voice is too gruff, sluggish from lust, "Lady, lady…lady," he falls into her, sinking, where her skin is marked red from the day's bristle along his jaw. And he's bringing her body up, her ass along his strained groin, pushing up into her. Slow. She's wearing panties, translucent, feeling his fingers diving between skin and material. She makes another low moan, shuddering as he touches her heat—too hot, finding the cleft between, the softness and the moist heat makes him growl. He wants to violently shove her on the bed, his mind rages, because his demon's blood flares, burning sadistic, hurts like an open wound, wanting to take her.

But he's in control, simmering leisurely, as the blood flows hot-- the rumble in his chest makes its way past his throat; he's moaning against her mouth; his lips wandering under her chin, leaving dark red marks on her neck.

And she bites into him, giving him more---and they've moved, falling onto the bed; she's under him, and his hands roam—all over her back, feeling the lines and curves. The scars, they're partly healed, and he knows these are not so bad, because she takes it with pride. He allows her some room as he parts with his pants, roughly. The noises in the room are the sounds of his short, rapid breathing—long drawn out, exhaling, panting, and she's breathless, turning slightly, facing him.

"Let me, Dante." She gazes at him, wicked, before she closes them over, and her hands are at him, pulling the short under pants away, and reveals too much. She is smiling; one corner of her lip pulls up. And he groans loud, head back---shudders as he feels her mouth closing over, taking him sweet and soft, wet, sliding, sucking.

He stops her, before she could go on, because he thinks that she's enjoying it too much—and he's enjoying it too much. He's astonished at his will power, because he's shaking, tremulous with need to release. And this time, he promises her, that he'll be rough because she won't mind. She can take it, and she's already there, when her ass is the sweetest pushed against him. He holds her hips, steady, breathing hard. He strains at first, pushes in, her walls tight—surrounding his turgid organ like a wet, hot embrace. They sound off together, filling the room with grunts, skin slapping against skin, and her cries of pleasure makes him drive harder.

She's got her fingers digging into the sheets, pulling at them, and she's being pushed up, being driven back and forth as he fills her over and over again. Lady tries to push back, and receives his push and pull; feels the rush of his blood, violent inside him, and he's gritting his teeth. Doesn't realize, seconds before--- that he's gripping his fingers hard on her waist, slamming into her; he knows, when he's got himself reaching against her walls, touches the spot, because he's done this before, where he's driving mercilessly; she's trembling—screaming a warning that she's going to reach a point. Even when he knows this, he waits for her body language, the feel of her walls clasping around him---tight, before he makes his own release. He starts to shudder against her back, sweat between them--sweet and musky.

He likes to lay there, next to her, while she's resting, at peace. Even he can't help but feel the slow burn there, where he kisses her temple, down to her wet cheeks, her shoulders, tracing the curve of her spine. There are rough patches of scars—but they're hers, like a tattoo--a testament to her human body. He is glad, that she is human, and showed him the way of what his father must have felt when he had fallen in love once.

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_---The end._


End file.
